Generosity
by Woodspurge
Summary: A few separate events and incidents that speak of disintegration, and of the beneficence of the Capitol.
1. All Dead

Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or anyone or anything specific to the Hunger Games Trilogy. I make no financial gain from this.

Note: This chapter was previously published under the title 'Generosity and Forgiveness.' It's not a new story. I've changed the title and summary because I decided occasionally add other one-shots to it instead of posting them separately.

**All Dead**

This section of the Seam is quiet and still as a graveyard in the bright morning sun. Most of its inhabitants are already in the mine or in school. Those few that would usually have been home- mothers trying to care for small children, a couple of adults with recent injuries from the mine who are waiting to see if they'll recover or starve- have been driven out by the Peacekeepers.

The whole section, encompassing some twenty-five homes, is being put under quarantine for the protection of the District. Symptoms of a rare strain of flu have been noticed in certain of the residents. This is what they were told as they were forced to leave with nothing but the clothes they were wearing. You will be told when it is safe to return. Anyone who returns before it is safe will be shot.

Only eight people remain, neatly confined to a single tumble-down shack near the middle of the section: a thin man with steel-colored hair and eyes that fairly dance with lunatic good humor; three white-garbed Peacekeepers with near-identical non-expressions on their hard faces; a teenage boy with dark, curly hair who twitches rabbit-like in the vise grip of one of the Peacekeepers; and a trio of people kneeling in the middle of the room, like supplicants come before a merciless lord.

This is the Abernathy dwelling, it is two weeks after the dramatic and bloody end of the 50th Hunger Games, and the time has come to show the newest Victor the consequences of impertinence.

His mother's hand tightly clasps that of his little brother, nine year old Roen. She can't quite believe that this is really happening. The worst had been over. It had ended two weeks ago.

She had watched her beloved son collapse at the edge of that cliff, his intestines falling out in gray, shiny ropes. Frozen with shock, unaware of the tears running down her face, she had watched as the convulsions gripped his destroyed body, as the blond girl with the axe arrived to finish killing him. Her paralysis had finally broken, and she had snatched her remaining child and fled to the bedroom, away from the hateful viewscreen. There she had held Roen for the rest of the day, rocking him and crying. Probably Roen, who was only nine and had been devoted to his big brother, had been crying, too. Or maybe he had been in shock. She had tried repeatedly to focus on Roen, knowing he was the only thing that would get her through the coming weeks, months, years (oh, gods, _years_, oh-my-son, _gods_). But opening her eyes hurt, all she could see was Haymitch dying over and over, dying in agony.

She had not found out he was still alive until the next morning, when the TV crews had arrived to interview her. Though he was taken from the arena still breathing, there had initially been some doubt as to whether he would survive the night. No one was sure what the media protocol for a dead Victor should be.

Her son had come back to her. He hadn't been the same, of course. The first few nights, horrible screams woke her and Roen. He had once socked her in the jaw when she had shaken him awake from one of these nightmares. Several times during the day he had seemed to be hallucinating. But he's already getting a little better. He hadn't been driven mad, only traumatized. He's going to be fine, he just needs time. So what is _this_? What can be happening now?

On Roen's other side Kelsee is crying, trying to keep quiet. Little sobs keep escaping. The fact of death is in Kelsee's gray eyes, inescapable. She is sixteen, like Haymitch. Three months older, actually. She would have been seventeen this fall, and she had been looking forward to teasing him for those three months until he caught up to her again. They've been together for two years, since she caught him watching her for the third or fourth time in school and decided she was certainly bold enough to confront him about it. They were supposed to get married on his eighteenth birthday. It was already announced to their families and friends, who had laughed and offered them congratulations in advance. Less than two months ago, before this whole dreadful horror show began, they had been playfully arguing about how many kids to have.

Even after they had taken him, she'd been sure he would come back. Her parents had tried to prepare her for his death, had tried to cushion the blow they never doubted was coming. But she'd just shaken her head and kept watching the screen. Her heart just hadn't been able to give him up. And when he'd stepped off the train afterwards she'd been there, and he had fallen into her arms and held her so tightly it had been almost painful. What did it matter if he had nightmares or flashbacks? He was hers, and she was his, and they would prevail.

And now it's suddenly all over. None of it will ever happen. For her, this is the end of everything. They clearly mean to kill her while they make Haymitch watch. Her and his mother and his sweet little brother, too. She's only sixteen, and they're going to kill her. Why? What _happened_?

"It's okay, Roen, it's okay. I love you, honey. Everything will be fine," Haymitch's mother croons softly, desperate to keep the child still.

Roen isn't old enough or wise enough to know his death when he sees it looking at him across the living room floor, and that's a mercy. It's the only thing that makes it possible to keep him quiet. She has a strong feeling that if he makes a racket and annoys these men, they will shoot him right here. But he's plenty old enough to know that there's nothing even remotely okay in this tableau. He won't keep quiet much longer, and they need to get out of here. Even now tears are brimming in Roen's upturned eyes. She looks across the room to her other son pleadingly, as though he can do something to call off these jackals that have surrounded them. _For gods sake, Haymitch, give them whatever it is they want!_ she begs in the silence.

Haymitch can't do anything. His wrists are cuffed behind his back, and one of the Peacekeepers has a firm grip on his arm. He can't reach them. He can feel himself shaking, violent tremors running through his entire body. He tries to speak, opens his mouth, but can only produce an incoherent noise, a wordless cry of panic. He bites his lip sharply, grinding it between his teeth until it's torn and bloody. In the waiting silence, he tries again.

"Please, sir, please _don't_. I'll do anything you want, _anything_, I swear I will. Please. Don't."

Snow's only reply is to nod to the Peacekeeper standing behind Haymitch's mother. A gun is raised, there is an explosion, and she falls forward, convulsively jerking Roen down by the hand she still holds.

Roen screams shrilly, bolts to his feet, and runs for the door of the bedroom. Haymitch screams with his little brother, screams and struggles. One of the Peacekeepers goes after Roen, dragging the shrieking boy back and slamming him down next to his mother's body. Roen holds out his arms to his brother, and begs, "_Hay, help m_-" Another shot rings out, and he falls with the plea still on his lips.

Haymitch slumps in the Peacekeeper's grip, eyes screwed tightly shut, breathing in uneven gasps of the warm late summer air. Something is waved under his nose, and he jerks away from the sudden sharp pain. "He's conscious, sir," reports the Peacekeeper, pocketing the vial of smelling salts.

"Good. Kill the girl."

Haymitch is shaken briskly, and he opens his eyes to look at Kelsee for the last time. "Kelsee, Kelsee, I'm sorry," he cries. "Kelsee…"

"I still love you," Kelsee gets out through her frightened sobs. And she jerks around suddenly to face Snow. "_I still love him,"_ she cries, her bright gray eyes ablaze with defiance. Then the trigger is pulled, and then she dies. The light seems to linger, trying to stay in her eyes, trying and failing, flickering out slowly.

"Remove his restraints," Snow commands, "and let him go."

Haymitch sinks to his knees, staring at the bodies. He whimpers, a hurt animal noise. "Kelsee?" he whispers. "Mom?" Blood runs down his chin from his torn lip. He reaches up to wipe it away, succeeding only in smearing it across his face.

A hand rests on his head. He sits stunned for almost a minute before he even notices the fingers running through his hair. Belatedly, he pulls away and looks up at Snow. His eyes are wide in shock and bafflement and a hideous, dawning awareness of what has just happened in front of him, in this room he grew up in. "Mom? Kelsee? _Roen_?"

"All dead, my boy," Snow says gravely, looking back into those upturned eyes. "And all because of you. How very _foolish_ you were." He turns away. "Take him to his new home in the Village, and see that he stays there until he calms down."

Rough hands are on him again, hauling him to his feet and clamping on his arm. For a frozen moment he hangs limply in the Peacekeepers grasp, looking back at the bodies. Then a sludgy and half-functional sort of autopilot kicks in, and he gets his feet under him and stands. Four bodies, aren't there? One, two, three… four? He couldn't have survived what just happened. Dead, dead, dead. Mom's dead, Roen's dead. Kelsee is dead. He can't breathe.

Snow looks at the teenager with his far-seeing eyes. "And do make sure he's alive and in one piece for the Victory Tour, won't you? I would be _very_ disappointed if anything should keep him from enjoying his reward."


	2. Auspicious

Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own the Hunger Games universe or anyone or anything specific to that universe. And I make no financial gain from this.

**Auspicious**

Peeta knocks on the door of Haymitch's cabin and then steps back impatiently. It's already a quarter to nine in the morning, and the train will be arriving in the Capitol this afternoon. Haymitch had been in no condition to give them any advice yesterday. He had seemed only intermittently aware of Peeta's presence as he was being stripped, bathed, toweled off, and put to bed. In hindsight, Peeta knows he should have anticipated such a state after seeing Haymitch's drunken antics at every Reaping he can remember. But time is running out, and he and Katniss need to know what to expect and how to handle themselves once they get to the Capitol.

He has been knocking on this door for three minutes now, with no hint of a response.

"Alright, then," he mutters. "If he won't come to the door, I'll have to go in and get him." He hesitates, not wanting to upset his volatile mentor. But what choice does he have? Mindful of the need for privacy, he opens the door just enough to slip in and closes it quickly behind him.

Haymitch is still in bed, the sheets twisted around one arm and leg, the other arm hanging over the side.

"Haymitch, wake up!" Peeta says loudly, crossing the room to the bed. The other man doesn't stir. Peeta grabs his shoulder and shakes him gently, getting no reaction. "Haymitch?" he says, feeling slightly worried now. Isn't it possible to overdose on alcohol? Haymitch had been _really_ messed up yesterday…

He shakes him harder. Surely he can't be dead? Peeta slides his fingers into the hollow of Haymitch's throat, feeling for the pulse point. And the same moment he feels it, Haymitch makes a muffled, protesting sound. He still doesn't move or even open his eyes, but Peeta feels a relieved smile cross his features. He's neither dead nor comatose, just a very heavy sleeper.

"Sorry about this," he says, and seizes the hand dangling over the side of the bed and holds it palm up as he digs the knuckle of his thumb into it.

That does the trick. There is a muffled sound, almost a cry, and Haymitch tries to roll away from him, tugging on the hand Peeta still holds. Then wide gray eyes are fixed on Peeta, and Peeta lets go of his hand. Haymitch jerks away, sitting up in the bed with his legs tucked under him and eyeing Peeta with eerie intensity. He looks coiled to spring, and as Peeta watches he begins to gather himself to do just that.

"Whoa, calm down!" Peeta keeps as still as he can. He is all too aware that his voice has gotten much too loud, and that he has to speak in a calm reassuring tone if he is to defuse this. For some reason, Haymitch doesn't recognize him. And this man who had seemed so helpless the previous evening, and so utterly vulnerable a minute ago, is in fact a trained killer, and perhaps not entirely sane. If he actually attacks, there's no way help will arrive in time.

So Peeta takes a deep breath and continues in a quieter tone. "It's okay, calm down, it's alright, it's okay." It's simple, repetitive, and hopefully calming. And it seems to be having an effect. Haymitch breaks eye contact, looks quickly around the cabin, and looks down at himself.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demands roughly.

"It's alright. I'm Peeta, remember? One of the Tributes?"

"Peeta?" Haymitch repeats doubtfully. He looks around the cabin again, searching.

"It's okay. There's no one else here, just us."

Haymitch nods, meets Peeta's eyes again. "I remember you."

"Good." Peeta smiles at him, and it's an expression of such genuine pleasure that Haymitch finds himself smiling back. He catches himself and scowls.

"What do you want?"

"Get dressed and come have breakfast with us, why don't you? You missed dinner last night."

"Yeah, I guess I did," Haymitch says sardonically. He untangles himself from the sheets, scoots forward to the side of the bed closest to Peeta, and carefully stands up. He's as steady as he ever gets these days, off to a good start. He grabs the silver flask from his bedside table and uncorks it with the same hand that holds it. Taking a gulp, he catches Peeta's look and grins truculently. "Hair of the dog." He heads for the door. "Come on, then. Breakfast."

"Haymitch, wait," Peeta calls from behind him. Haymitch turns back, a curious glint to his eyes, as though he really has no clue what the hold-up is.

"Don't you want to put on some clothes before we go out there?"

Haymitch looks down at himself. He had noticed earlier that he was only wearing shorts, which had been confusing. When the Capitol attendants have to clean him up after the Reaping they always leave him naked after they have finished with him. When he manages to get to bed without help, he sleeps fully dressed. So, what the hell?

Then he had gotten a flash, one of those isolated few seconds of memory that sometimes comes back after a heavy drunk: sitting naked in the bathtub while the boy- Peeta, this year's sacrificial lamb, for fuck's sake- runs a wet cloth over his chest. Having solved the mystery, he had forgotten his lack of attire. With everything else today is sure to bring, that's not even a blip on the radar.

Not that he is going to admit that to this kid, who is looking at him with concern and what may well be pity.

"Fuck it," he says harshly. "Every person on this train has seen more of me than this. Except the girl… right?"

"Right. And her name is Katniss."

"Alright, _Katniss_. Don't get your panties in a bunch," he says arrogantly, pawing through the wardrobe. Arrogance is good. Dislike is good. Concern and pity are to be crushed as quickly as possible. No need to make the next few weeks any more hellish than they have to be.

He pulls out a blue satin robe, as gaudy and over-decorated as everything else the Capitol provides, and shrugs into it, tying the belt but letting it hang open at the chest. Putting on an actual set of clothes might be misconstrued as giving in. "Okay? Do you think this will spare _Katniss's_ delicate sensibilities?"

"That's fine," Peeta answers in an annoyingly friendly voice.

"Super. Let's go." Haymitch takes another drink for luck, and then slams the door open and stalks out into the corridor, Peeta following in his wake.


	3. Realization

Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own the Hunger Games universe or anyone or anything specific to it. And I make no financial gain from this.

Note: This takes place during Effie's first year as an Escort. She's twenty, and Haymitch is thirty-one.

**Realization**

Two days into the 65th Annual Hunger Games, both Tributes from District 12 are dead. The older one, 16 year old Olliva Lenn, hadn't even made it through the bloodbath. That had left them with 12 year old Nolan Needhem, and another day of watching a terrified little boy run pell-mell through the trees while the other Tributes focused on solidifying their bases, caching supplies, and hunting down the strongest competitors. It was hopeless, even a first time Escort like Effie could see that. There was just nothing Haymitch could do for the child. Nolan had finally stopped running out of sheer exhaustion and hunkered down in the meager cover of a clump of giant tree roots. There the boy from District Six had found him less than two hours later.

Effie sips her champagne and casts an expectant look toward the door marked with a twelve. Now that there's nothing more for him to do in the Control Room, Haymitch will be joining her in the Grand Lounge; this is where Escorts, Stylists, and a select few of the wealthiest Sponsors watch the Games from. And that means her work is just beginning. It's going to be a long two weeks or so.

She doesn't turn her emerald eyes back to the giant projector screen. Judging by how Haymitch has behaved in public so far, she'll have to catch him as soon as he comes out to preserve what remains of Twelve's tattered reputation. It's her first year as an Escort, and more than anything she wants to prove that she can handle whatever comes her way. Even if it's the notorious Capitol 'bad boy' himself.

He still hasn't emerged, and she spares a second to tilt her head questioningly at her champagne flute and give it a small, refined sniff. It smells okay, but her heart is pounding too hard. She gestures to one of the Avox waiters and places the mostly full vessel on his tray next to several empty ones. With a tiny, dissatisfied sigh, she turns her eyes back to the marked door.

From the very start these Games hadn't been nearly as much fun as all the others she remembers. She'd always thought actually being a part of them would make them so much more exciting. In the Academy, it had always seemed like a chance to be part of something epic, the stuff of legends. That's what she had worked so hard for over the past three years. But somehow it just doesn't seem as… well, not as _festive_ as usual, she supposes. Maybe it's just nerves.

It was bad luck to draw Nolan's name, of course, especially on her very first year. No one likes to see a twelve year old get sent into the arena. And it's clear that Haymitch has somehow decided it's her fault, even though absolutely everyone knows the drawing is random (she _thought_ everyone knew that). But these things sometimes happen, and it's her job to make the best of it.

Her focus sharpens as the door opens and Haymitch stumbles out, blinking in the bright light. Effie waves at him and is relieved when he heads towards her without any sign of an embarrassing detour. Her inviting smile changes to a look of surprise and consternation as he continues past her without a word.

Standing up, she scans the room to try to guess who he's going for even as she calls out, "Haymitch, come sit with me!"

She'd been warned about him, but she'd laughed it all off as exaggerations and urban legends told by the jealous classmates she'd beaten out of a placement. But the more time she spends with him the more she gets a sinking feeling in her stomach that most of it is likely true (surely not _all_ of it, though). Starting with the fiasco at the Reaping, Haymitch has been going out of his way at every turn to humiliate her and make her look like an incompetent little girl who isn't up to the job. He's stalking towards Cecil Eddington, now, and if he does something like what he did at the Tribute Parade Effie will positively immolate out of embarrassment.

He ignores her call, but it turns out he's heading for the large double doors leading out of the Lounge. Without hesitation, Effie follows him. For some reason she just isn't in the mood to enjoy the rest of the Games. She's almost grateful to have such a good cause to leave. She can put her skills to much better use trying to keep her recalcitrant Victor out of trouble, anyway. And later on they can watch the highlights together and start planning for next year.

The Grand Lounge is on the lowest level of the Tribute Building. She catches up to him at the elevator, barely managing to jab the toe of her pink high-heeled shoe between the closing doors.

"There is a hold button," she tells him in a brisk tone, stepping in beside him. "Right there, see? You push that when someone else wants to get in the elevator, too." Her voice wavers uncertainly between archness and an almost-warm tone that's meant to be friendly but noncommittal. Because he's not a Capitolite, it's plausible that he really doesn't know about elevators. It's more likely that he's continuing to be a gigantic ass.

"Go watch your Games, Princess," he sneers at her, looking straight ahead. "I don't need a babysitter."

Effie laughs. "No, you most certainly don't. Although a couple of full-time minders would be a very great help."

"You're just like the rest of them," he says in a musing tone. "You laugh and you laugh, and it's all so goddamn hilarious, all of this." He turns on her abruptly, too close in the confines of the elevator. "Tell me how you can _laugh_, Princess."

Confused, she takes a half-step back and hits the wall. "I… I don't know. I suppose it was the mental image of some poor teenager trying to babysit you."

He raises an eyebrow at her, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he gives her a long look. She blushes, indignant at the implications in that expression.

"I'm not a teenager, and I'm definitely not a babysitter! I'm a professional Games Escort," she says, tilting her chin up defiantly.

"I meant," he says slowly, "how can you laugh when you've just watched a twelve year old kid get his throat cut?"

Flustered, she drops her eyes. She wasn't laughing about that. She wouldn't laugh about something like that. His words have summoned up the boy's face in her mind, and she remembers how scared he looked. At the time she'd been on the edge of her seat, silently urging him to run. Now suddenly she feels small and sick, and a little scared herself.

"I'm sorry," she says, softly and unhappily.

"You're sorry?" Then he just looks at her wordlessly until the doors slide open on level 12. Turning away, he says, "Yeah. So am I."

She follows him into the lavish suite, and down the hall to his bedroom. Why does she feel like this? This isn't what the Games are about. How can he spin her around like this with just a few words?

"Aren't you going to watch the rest of the Games?" she asks tentatively.

"You let me know how it ends," he tells her.


	4. Glow

Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own the Hunger Games universe or anyone or anything specific to it. And I make no financial gain from this.

**Glow**

The window wall is set to show the striking vista of the Capitol at night, and thousands of colored lights glitter through the non-darkness like fallen stars. There'll be a party on every street down there tonight as the Capitolites celebrate the start of the 66th Annual Hunger Games. As Effie watches, fireworks bloom in the sky directly across from the Tribute Building like a metaphor of the last hour.

Her questing hand finds Haymitch's much larger one and squeezes it. "Look!" she whispers. "It's so beautiful out there tonight!"

"Trying to sleep," he mutters with a total lack of enthusiasm.

She rolls over to face him, smiling. "Well, wake up. I'm not tired."

This elicits a soft groan from the man stretched out beside her in the bed. "Gods, you weren't a virgin, were you?" he asks without opening his eyes.

Affronted, she snatches her hand away. "I should say _not_! I've had plenty of men. Why would you ask me that?" Did she seem inexperienced? None of her other partners had ever complained…

He slits his eyes open and fixes her with a look of tired amusement. "Look at you. Hissing and spitting like a wet cat. Take a deep breath, Princess. All I meant was that guys like to sleep after."

Fuming, Effie sits up quick so that she can tower over him. "You are the most ill-mannered, boorish, unsophisticated _oh_-" She breaks off her tirade with a startled squeak as he grabs her and pulls her back down. She lands on his chest and then he's kissing her _very_ thoroughly and she promptly forgets the list of adjectives she still had to say. He tastes of blackberry wine and an undercurrent of something harsher, and she wraps her arms around him and loses herself again in the sensations.

"Now, would you _please_ shut up so I can sleep?" he says in tones of exaggerated politeness.

"My, what progress you're making. You should be very proud of yourself," she retorts, but she isn't mad anymore. Her good mood has returned and this is actually kind of fun.

"Oh, I am," he chuckles, giving her an appreciative up-and-down look that fully makes up for his insulting question. "You're not half-bad, either, you know."

Effie makes a disapproving noise that she knows will have no salutary effect at all. She watches his eyes slip closed and admires the sheen of his tousled golden hair.

Haymitch is mostly asleep when a soft, musical noise filters through and falls over his restless mind like a gentle rain. Someone singing, the words no more than overlapping notes. It's high and pretty and sad sounding. Someone he used to know a long time ago had played the piano. Asleep now, he can see the shadows of two kids sitting side by side on a polished wooden bench.

Effie's voice trails away as she finishes the second verse. It's a song that was briefly popular in her parents' day, an obscure classic now. The lyrics are a bit odd, seeming to suggest a state of weariness and near-despair and a promise of peace that may be only a metaphor for death. Even though she favors the fun, catchy, mainstream songs in public, with their innuendos and their heavy, driving beats, she's always secretly liked this strange song from a bygone time. And somehow it seems like the only song she knows that's appropriate for Haymitch.

Shaking her head, she tells herself to stop being so silly. Wherever had _that_ thought come from? Neither of them, indeed nobody in this beautiful magical city, has any cause for such an overwrought feeling as despair, especially on a night like this. Effie is not certain that 'despair' even exists outside of the mawkish books that some of her peers enjoy. It may well be only a literary device.

She brushes her fingers lightly down his side, feeling the slow movement of his breathing. Her touch travels on to his abdomen. There she encounters the rough, raised texture of his battle scar. The mark is long and curved and several shades lighter than the rest of his skin. It slashes across his nearly flat belly from the bottom of his rib cage on the left and ends a few inches above his right hip. She runs her fingers along it, watching his sleeping face. It must still hurt a little, judging by the way he pulled away from her touch with a whispered, "Don't," earlier in the evening and then immediately distracted her. Asleep, he doesn't react.

His Games are one of the earliest she remembers. She had only been five, and it was the first year she was allowed to accompany her parents to one of the 'Final Four' parties. Dolled up in a sparkly blue dress and with a glittering tiara affixed in her long blond hair, she had been introduced around the room with genial formality. She had met two Victors and the Head Gamemaker himself, and she still remembers it as one of the happiest nights of her childhood.

She had still been young enough to hide her face in her mother's dress a couple of times during the Games, at the particularly bloody parts. But for the most part she had sat proudly between her parents and watched the screen like the young lady she was. She wanted to show everyone that she was grown up enough to be included.

She'd seen Filigree swing the axe into Haymitch's body, and as the blood flew she caught her breath and turned her face away into the soft blue velvet. But this time her mother had murmured, "Watch the screen, darling. It's the final battle."

Effie had obediently turned forward, eyes wide and heart racing. She'd forgotten to smile, she'd let her mouth drop open, and she'd gripped a handful of her mother's skirt. But she'd watched right up until the trumpets sounded and the hovercraft arrived. The screen had gone dark as it descended, and the whole room had erupted in cheers and applause as confetti rained down everywhere.

Effie's father had squeezed her shoulder and said, "Good girl, Euphemia." Belatedly tearing her eyes from the black screen, Effie had grinned up at her handsome, laconic father. A compliment from him was a rare treasure, and in that moment she felt that she had never been happier.

In the years to come, whenever Effie thought about watching the final hours of the 50th Annual Hunger Games that night all she would remember feeling was excitement and happiness. And the next year she didn't look away once.

Effie turns back toward the window and looks out on the city. Tomorrow morning the Games begin. She'll go to the Grand Lounge and Haymitch will go to the Control Room. And Ester and Ston will go into the Arena. Maybe Ston will be the Victor this year. There aren't many Sponsors, but Haymitch says he's a decent fighter. And he's big, for a kid from Twelve.

Effie sighs and sits up, moving to the edge of the bed carefully so as not to wake Haymitch. She begins to gather her scattered clothing. She simply must shake this tedious melancholy that keeps creeping up on her out of nowhere. She'll go join one of the street parties. A couple of cocktails and a few hours of dancing will be just the thing to get her back in the mood to enjoy the Games.

The night stretches out before her, brimming with possibilities.


	5. Retribution

Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own the Hunger Games universe or anyone or anything specific to it. I make no financial gain from this.

**Retribution**

December 16th dawns unseasonably warm, with a mischievous breeze sending the dead leaves swirling and rustling. It would have been perfect weather. The sky is even full of those thick rolling gray clouds that she always liked for some reason. She would always point at the sky on days like this and declare that it was 'magic weather'.

Haymitch sits on the edge of the fountain, bare feet submerged in the icy water, and stares up at the concrete angel. She doesn't return his regard, cold heartless thing that she is. Instead she gazes serenely out over his head toward the archway leading into the Village. Earlier he had gone out there to the arch and stood under it, but that had been even worse. Out there she had gazed through him instead of merely over him. Her indifference is unassailable.

"Ugly old thing, anyway," he utters into the stillness. Of course, she isn't ugly. She's generic. She could be any long-haired girl between the ages of about fifteen and twentyish. Just someone's token nod to a classical motif. He guesses angels must have been in vogue fifty-odd years ago.

He's eighteen today, and he hasn't left the Village or spoken to another person since last summer's Games. Someone brings his drink right to his door these days. Three bottles of white liquor every Monday morning. This delivery is always accompanied by a box of food. Someone has been going to considerable trouble to make sure he needn't come out into the rest of Twelve.

After the second time this happened, Haymitch started leaving an envelope stuffed with his entire monthly pay on the front step in one of the emptied boxes. Whoever it is never takes all of it, although Haymitch wouldn't care if they did.

Yesterday's box had contained a small bag of toffee and a bundle of striped candy sticks tied with a blue ribbon. They had been lying right on top, all the regular food lost underneath them. They're still there, sitting untouched in their box: a pointing finger, a screamed accusation, a proclamation of his guilt. The dead girl's parents sent him a birthday present. He's not going to touch it.

He tilts the knife back and forth, watching the blade glitter in the pale morning light. Then he takes a firm grip on the haft and draws its sharp edge across his right wrist. He cuts fast and hard, not giving himself time to feel it, making sure he cuts deep.

Cutting into his own skin is not at all like killing the other Tributes had been. The first time he had tried it he had been surprised by how stubbornly his flesh resisted the knife and how hard he had to press to draw even a thin line of blood to the surface. An instinctive avulsion had made him stop at four shallow cuts, back then. It was almost a sense of guilt, as though his body was a separate being from _him_ and it was struggling against the senseless injuries inflicted on it. But that's stupid, nothing more than cowardice rationalized.

Today would have been his wedding day. Would Kelsee even recognize this blond strung-out addict pathetically vying for the attention of a statue? And let's not forget the four kids you've helped the Capitol murder since she last saw you. You think there's a chance in hell she'd still want to marry you? If she could see you now…

Hesitation is what makes it seem difficult. That's the crucial difference. So he cuts quick and hard, and the reward is instantaneous. Blood wells to the surface and begins to run down his right forearm toward his bent elbow. He watches, breathing hard, waiting to feel faint. It stings a little, that's all.

A low whine reaches his ears and at first he thinks he must have voiced it himself, a final protest against this betrayal. Then he sees movement in his peripheral vision and looks up. A tri-colored dog stands less than ten feet away from where he's sitting. It's one of the ubiquitous strays; they usually stay away from people and live by scavenging among the trash. This one is medium-sized and shaggy-coated. The dog whines again, tail tucked, and it comes to Haymitch that the animal is begging. Its ribs stand out glaringly against its lackluster hide.

"Easy, fella," he says softly. He's thinking that usually the food boxes contain some sort of smoked or salted meat, and they always include bread. Maybe he can at least do this one decent thing before he dies. "Last time pays for all," he recites to himself, eyeing the starving mongrel.

He stands, and the dizziness floods over him. His blood patters onto the ground like rain. He grips his wounded wrist tightly to try to slow it and walks unsteadily toward the house. He had already been receding, but the movement makes things a little sharper again. Leaving the door open, he makes it to the dining room and grabs the box. It's too heavy for him to lift now, so he shoves it off the edge of the table. Packages spill out across the floor and his failing eyes find the block of ham neatly wrapped in clear plastic and labeled in blocky capitals.

He makes it back to the fountain and half-sits-half-falls down in the grass at its base. The dog has waited for him, first creeping closer to the open door of the house and then darting away as Haymitch emerges and lurches back across the leaf-strewn ground. Now it moves closer again, half-crouched and with its ears laid back.

"Here you go, fella," Haymitch says, throwing the unwrapped meat to the dog. Exhausted, he lies down in the fragrant softness of the grass. It's almost over. For the first time in almost a year he feels tears prick at his eyes, and he lets them come.

The dog sniffs at the ham, licks it, and then begins to wolf it down. Its tail comes out from between its legs and slowly waves from side to side. Then an explosion shatters the morning, and the dog jumps straight up into the air before landing on its side. It begins to howl, legs thrashing as it tries to get up and run.

Haymitch slams himself back against the stone wall of the fountain, shocked into full awareness. A white figure strides into his field of vision, places a heavy boot on the struggling animal's neck, and shoots it again at point blank range. The horrible howling screams are instantly cut off.

The Peacekeeper holsters his gun and steps over the dog's body toward Haymitch. Haymitch tries to hit him, but it's useless; he can barely see anymore, and as the Peacekeeper grabs his uninjured arm to drag him to his feet he passes out at last.

When he comes to he's tucked into bed, wearing a t-shirt and shorts instead of the clothes he remembers putting on this morning. His left wrist is wrapped in a bulky bandage. He feels tired and weak, and by that he knows he has failed even before the image of the Peacekeeper and the howling dog comes back to him like a hard slap.

A round-faced woman with long blond hair sits in a chair by his bed. She's watching him anxiously. He must have been out for hours, but she has no mending with her and no book. Haymitch is somehow sure that she hasn't taken her eyes off him once.

Seeing that he's awake, she leans forward and begins to speak quickly. "The Peacekeeper brought me here to see to your wrist. He said I'm to stay until he comes back and tells me to leave. I'm to make sure you don't hurt yourself." She puts a hand on his arm, pleading. "He said you're my responsibility until he tells me I can leave. I have three children. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," he mumbles. "I won't do anything."

"Thank you. Please, just remember that. And- he said there'll be mandatory viewing tomorrow morning at 11am." She looks around the room with a scared, trapped expression. Mandatory viewing when it isn't Games season is rare and always heralds something awful. Haymitch wonders if she has a husband to watch her kids, and how old they are.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore after this. You can ask me for whatever you need, but I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"Okay," Haymitch says. "I understand. Sorry." He rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes. If he stays in bed and doesn't even talk to her, he can't possibly get her in any more trouble. The Peacekeeper had killed that dog just because he'd spoken to it and fed it. He's poison, now. He won't forget that again.

The rest of that day and night, he gets out of bed only to use the bathroom. He sleeps as much as he can. It seems every time he wakes up the woman is there with a glass of juice or a piece of toast or a bowl of soup. He eats whatever she brings him quickly and wordlessly, afraid every second that she'll forget the rules and say something to him.

By the time she comes into his room holding the clock that usually hangs on the kitchen wall and pointing at the hands, he's feeling almost normal again physically. He's been contemplating whether it would be possible to steal a gun. Maybe someone at the Hob would know where he can get one.

He pulls on a pair of pants over his shorts and follows her downstairs to the living room, letting her hold onto his arm and mollycoddle him. Her eyes are red from crying. She's scared of whatever they're about to see, scared for her kids and maybe for her husband. Haymitch feels like the lowest form of scum as she holds onto his arm and makes him go slowly on the carpeted stairs.

She's already turned the projector on. They sit on opposite ends of the too-plushy couch, and a few minutes later the seal of Panem flashes onto the screen.

The picture changes to a view of the front of District Twelve's Justice Building. The doors open and the Head Peacekeeper strides out. Behind him, four Peacekeepers drag two men in handcuffs out to the front of the portico. The Head Peacekeeper steps up to the microphone and begins to read from a clipboard.

"The prisoners you see before you, Thomas Donner and Ollian Renfield, have been found guilty of the attempted murder of District Twelve Victor Haymitch Abernathy. For their crimes they have both been sentenced to death, sentences to be carried out immediately." Now he lowers the clipboard and looks up into the camera. He smiles, looking directly into Haymitch's eyes. He raises his right hand and sweeps it downward.

The guns go off simultaneously and the bodies of Maysilee's father and the father of the other female Tribute from the 50th Games, Jevine Renfield, slump forward onto the concrete. The cameras zoom in on them and pan over them lovingly. Ollian's head hangs over the edge of the stairs at a grotesque angle.

The captive woman sitting on the other end of the couch throws Haymitch a glance of mixed terror and revulsion. As the seal of Panem fills the screen again she hides her face in her shaking hands so she won't have to look at him.


End file.
